Trapped in his web, she was incapable of pulling back. Her hands rose to rest on the silk of his sleeves as he urged her nearer. And she went, lids falling as he bent his head.
“Why?” she whispered as his lips neared hers. She moistened her own. “Why did you kiss me a second time?”
The question to which she’d always wanted an answer.
“The second time?” His breath brushed her lips. “I kissed you a second time . . . to savor you.”
He did so again. His lips closed over hers, cool, firm, knowing. She knew she should resist, hold back; instead, she teetered on some invisible brink, then something inside her unlocked, gave. He sensed it. His hands locked about her waist, and he drew her to her toes. His lips hardened, firmed, became more demanding.
And she was tumbling, falling . . .
Why she would want to appease his arrogant demands she could not fathom, yet she did. Clinging to his strength, giving herself up to the thrill of the kiss was akin to madness, yet she did that, too.
When his lips urged hers open, she complied; he swallowed her gasp as he surged in and took her mouth, took her breath, then gave her his. He was bold—blatantly, sensually evocative; her senses reeled as she struggled to absorb the sensations, to follow his lead. To satisfy one demand so they could progress to the next.
Madness indeed. Her skin heated, her bodice grew tight, her breathing fractured. Her whole body felt alive, different, awake as it never had been before.
She wanted more. Her fingers closed on his silk sleeves, holding him. His grip tightened; his head angled, and he deepened the kiss.
Never had the urge to seize, to take, raged so powerfully. Sebastian fought to rein it in, yet he was hungry, so greedy, and she was luscious, so generous, so very much to his taste.
Never before had he coveted the taste of innocence, but she was different, not entirely untutored but naively and naturally sensual—he was caught, enthralled, addicted. He’d sensed her worth seven years before and had never forgotten it—the promise in her kiss.
Only experience, long steeped, hard won, allowed him to dam the welling tide, turn it back, let it subside.
The time was not right; he’d already gone further than he’d intended, lured by her lips, by the surprise of his need. Her lips would be bruised as it was.
He broke the kiss and shook with the effort of stopping himself from going back, from taking her mouth again. Touching his forehead to hers, he waited, listening to her breathing slow in time with the pounding in his blood.
He forced his arms to function, to set her back on her feet.
Her lids fluttered, then lifted. He drew back so he could see, watch puzzlement flow across her features, confusion invest her green eyes.
“There are other criteria you should consider in your search for a husband.”
He murmured the words, watched her brow furrow, then realized she might not even now correctly divine his meaning.
Easing
his grip about her waist, he held her lightly with one hand, then raised the other. He looked down, knowing she would follow his gaze, then watched as he lifted his hand, trailing his fingertips from her throat, over her collarbone to the silken skin just above her scooped neckline.
She caught her breath; one brief glance confirmed she was watching, fascinated more than horrified. He let his fingers trace over the silk, felt her flesh firm in response. Then he cupped her breast lightly.
The quiver that raced through her made him ache. Deliberately slow, he circled her nipple with his thumb and watched it peak and pebble.
“You want me, mignonne.”
“No.” A sound of desperation. She didn’t want to want him; Helena was sure about that. On all else—what was happening between them, what he intended, what he wanted of her—she was confounded, utterly and completely at sea.
His fingers touched her, traced, and she couldn’t think. She pulled back, pushed away. He let her go, but she sensed the brief clash between his desire and his will. Even if will won, she had to wonder if it would the next time.
Dangereux.
“No.” She sounded more definite the second time. “This will do us no good.”
“On the contrary, mignonne, it will be very good indeed.”
Pretending ignorance would be futile, disingenuousness worse. Lifting her chin, she fixed him with a stubborn look and went to take another step back—only to feel his fingers tighten about her waist.